


Pain As Practice

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Brainwashing, Father-Daughter Relationship, Flashbacks, Medical Torture, Pain, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 00:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11264445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: After failing to escape Columbia with Booker, Elizabeth is returned to her father and begins her transformation into the city's next prophet. Follows the backstory of the elder Lady Elizabeth found in Comstock House.





	Pain As Practice

At the start of her 17th year, Elizabeth acted like an average teenage girl: full of ambitions, worries, and ideas- even in an isolated tower on display. She had reacted normally when Booker DeWitt had (accidentally) invaded her home, fear and anger until he had proven himself an ally. If one followed her life on a calendar, day by day, you could pinpoint where, six months after her failed adventure with Booker, Elizabeth had _changed_.

Nowadays, she’s got a hard, flinty expression and is always, _always_ hurting. Last month it was her arm in a sling- this time it’s a black eye, the bruise such a vivid purple it competes with her eyes.

Her shoulders are stiff, squared; she never flinches anymore but there’s a wariness there, as if she’s expecting to be attacked at any moment. She has good reason to. Comstock has been working her over for months: After the almost-escape with DeWitt, he’d come down on her like the end of the world, ordering treatment after treatment until something had given.

Elizabeth still remembers what happened, even if she never speaks of it. She buries herself under lessons of history and elocution, etiquette and politics, hoping to forget. When she is allowed to rest, however, it creeps back up to her- as insidious and powerful as the tide.

* * *

 

 ~~Her father’s~~ Comstock’s men were holding her again. There were four of them, well armed and well oiled, reeking of gunpowder and cold indifference. Two of them grabbed her upper arms in vice grip; even as she let them drag her down the hall, she could feel the bruises blooming under her clothes in the perfect outline of their fingers. They had marched her down the plushly decorated halls, taking corner after corner before stopping at a thick metal door. She’d been crying so hard she could hardly even make out the shapes of the room as the entrance swung open, to busy trying to catch her breath between hysterical sobs. It wasn’t until her vision had clear slightly that she had notice him: a tall, slim man in scrubs expertly twirling a scalpel. Meeting her eyes, he smiled, his eyes turning up with the expression.  Stupidly, she had thought he was showing mercy- the memory at her naiveté almost made her laugh.

“Please...please, what is this place? Just...just send me back to my tower!” When she said this -sobbed it really- he frowned and cocked his head, feigning bewilderment. He crossed the room and stroked her cheek, ignoring her cringing and taking special care to brush her sweaty hair out of her face.

“It's too late for that now, child. Your father gave you a lovely home, and you chose to destroy it.”

With that, he pulled away and snapped his fingers at the soldiers restraining her, gesturing to the cot at the center of the room. “Strap her in.”

Time became a blur after that; Elizabeth felt her legs resist, felt herself being jostled by her handlers, even heard herself _scream,_ but it all seemed to go too fast for her to comprehend. Almost by magic, she found herself facing the ceiling, back pressed into cheap cushion, wrists and ankles being chafed by leather restraints. Her tattered jacket had been torn off, leaving her neck and upper back exposed. Coming back to reality, Elizabeth’d opened her mouth to speak, even to _beg_ if that’s what she thought they’d wanted, but before she could she felt something cold tickle along her spine and- oh.

 _Oh_.

The agony was so complete, so _enormous_ she had forgotten how to breathe- it was a shattering of her world, a breaking and entering where even her senses were torn apart. Almost drunkenly, her fingers spasmed shut, grabbing at the empty air, and her entire body shivered, too overwhelmed to react.

Now, looking back on the pain, Elizabeth was reminded of a line from book she’d found in a tear: the needle giving because the camel can't. She had broken so completely, crumbled so utterly simply because she had no other option. She; a soft and fallible thing, was no more able to change her being any more then the pain could. They were both unwavering, and it only made sense one would succeed over the other.

It was only when her vision started fading out that the pain lessened, the syringe retreating a few millimeters with a wet squelch. Her scream echoed under the domed ceiling, ringing down the hallways. She couldn't see anyone any more, couldn’t even hear from the roar of the generators. Even so, she couldn't help the words spilling from her mouth: incomprehensible pleas, garbled apologies and half coherent promises that she would never disobey her father again if he would _just let her out please._

Hidden in the wings of the operating room, Zachary Hale Comstock silently nodded his approval. She was doing so _well_.

An idea struck Elizabeth; desperately she pounced on it, hazy with pain. The words sickened her, but she had nothing else to offer, and so much to gain.

“I'll be...I'll be your daughter. I'll be your daughter!”

The syringe pulled out almost immediately. A stream of blood and some other, transparent fluid trickled out after it, making a sickly puddle on the polished floor. From his perch in the viewing room, Comstock watched his only child with a rapt expression. Seeing her pained expression, he focused on turning over her words in his head, as carefully and cautiously as a man searching for gold. Had she actually meant it?

Breathless, Elizabeth writhed on the cot, sweat glinting on her forehead from the harsh fluorescents, still gasping out her offer.

“I'll be...I'll be your daughter, _please_.”

Hearing her desperation, Comstock had turned away and adjusted his suit, brushing down the lapels and flicking off invisible dust. She was crying again, ugly tears and runny nose, but could barely contain his satisfaction. She was _learning_ ; soon she would take her rightful place as his heir, his scion with the world in her hands. He could see her standing above the flames of New York, silhouetted in flames like the angels of Scripture, cleansing the Sodom below and... and...

Clasping his hands behind his back, Comstock- with his graying teeth and rotting insides, thinning hair and sunken eyes- thought of what his daughter would become and _smiled_.


End file.
